The seasons had begun to shift. Summer's brightness had dulled into autumn's golden sadness, and the once-bustling farm now stood in quiet reflection. Trees slowly shed their leaves, as if mourning the changes in the Durant household. The wind carried a softer chill, and each morning felt heavier than the last.
Martha had tried—truly tried—to hold herself together after Malcolm's death. For Axel's sake. For the farm. For the memory of the man who had been her entire world. She still rose in the mornings, still lit the hearth and checked the pantry. But something inside her had changed.
Some days, she would simply forget.
Forget to cook. Forget to eat. Forget where she was going. Sometimes she would stand in the middle of the kitchen, eyes vacant, holding a spoon in her hand like she didn't remember why it was there.
Axel noticed. He always noticed.
One morning, the sky outside was still soft with dawn light when he heard a faint shuffle above. He looked up from the hearth where he was stoking the fire and called out gently, "Mom? Are you there?"
A pause.
Then her voice—weak, but warm—floated down the stairs. "Yes, I'm here. What do you want for breakfast, dear?"
Axel blinked. He hadn't expected her to be awake this early.
"Oh… I forgot to cook, didn't I?" she added, a hint of shame in her voice.
"No, Mom," Axel called back, keeping his tone calm. "I just woke up a little early today. I thought I'd help."
There was another pause. "Well then… can I get a chicken stew? And maybe some bread?"
Axel smiled, though it ached in his chest. "Sure, Mom. It'll be ready soon. Come down when you're hungry."
He made the stew the way she liked it—boiled slow, with carrots, potatoes, and herbs she had once taught him to grow. The bread was from yesterday's batch, still soft in the center. By the time she came downstairs, Axel had already set the table.
Martha sat down quietly and smiled faintly. She didn't speak much, but she ate.
After the meal, she stood up and said she needed to rest. "Just for a while," she murmured. "Just until the sun gets a little higher."
She didn't get up for the rest of the day.
Something wasn't right.
It wasn't just grief. It was deeper than that. Axel had seen grief—he had lived it. But this was something else. Something that left her skin pale and her breath short. Some days she spoke with clarity and memory. Other days she confused Axel for Malcolm, calling him "dear" and asking how the market trip went.
It wasn't just in her words—it was in her hands, too. The way they trembled. How she dropped things more often. How she stared at her fingers as if they weren't hers.
That evening, Axel went into the village and summoned the doctor—an old man named Roderic who had served Catler for three decades.
He came the next morning with a leather satchel and a concerned face. Axel watched as he examined Martha in the bedroom—asked her questions, checked her pulse, looked into her eyes.
The silence after the checkup was deafening.
Doctor Roderic stepped outside with Axel and closed the door gently behind him. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a red-orange glow across the pasture. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath.
"Axel…" the doctor began, his voice low and careful. "What I'm about to say—there's no easy way to hear it."
Axel stiffened.
"She's not just grieving. She's suffering from a degenerative condition—her mind is… slipping. Slowly. Painfully. Her body is starting to shut down from the inside."
Axel's breath caught. "What do you mean? Like memory loss? Fatigue?"
The doctor nodded grimly. "All of it. It's something I've only seen twice in my lifetime. The old names for it don't matter—what matters is this: her memory will continue to fade, her energy will decline, and eventually… even basic things like eating, speaking, and breathing will become a struggle."
Axel's fists clenched at his sides.
"How long?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
The doctor looked down. "Six months. Maybe seven… if she's strong."
Silence.
The wind rustled through the trees nearby, as if nature itself had paused in sorrow.
"I'm sorry, Axel. There's no treatment I know of. Not here. Not in our part of the empire."
He gave Axel a sorrowful nod and left, boots crunching on the gravel path.
Axel didn't move.
He stood in the doorway, staring at the fields, the barn, the fading sky. He thought of his father's blood on the marble floor. Of his mother's scream. Of chains. Of fire. Of Malcolm's final breath. And now… this.
He turned back toward the door and quietly stepped inside.
That night, Martha slept peacefully, her breathing soft. Axel sat beside her, holding her hand, his eyes rimmed red. He didn't cry. He couldn't.
The tears had dried long ago.
Instead, he made a promise—to her, to Malcolm, to himself.
She had given him a home, a name, a family. She had picked up the broken pieces of a boy and helped mold him into a man. Even as her light faded, he would carry it. For her. For the future. For the past that tried to crush them both.